The Wreck

by Meg Keneally

  Memories of the arrests and hangings still assaulted her at odd times, gripping her without warning so that she needed to steady herself, catch her breath. Now they had been called forth so directly, she found herself swaying, swallowing, trying to see through glazed eyes.

  Keenan reached out to steady her. Baxendale just stared.

  ‘Perhaps, Mr Baxendale,’ Keenan said, ‘we should have a care for more delicate sensibilities.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Sarah said. ‘I have no queasiness when it comes to rebellions.’

  Baxendale raised an eyebrow at her. ‘A kitchen uprising, was it?’

  Sarah dug her nails into her palm in self-reproval. Even here, she could not tell anyone about her past. She would be adding to their danger with the weight of the knowledge, while adding to her own.

  ‘General Ludd’s men,’ she said, and swallowed. ‘They attacked the mill where I worked, when I was about twelve.’

  So many horrors had arisen to replace the memory that she had not thought about it in a long time. She had watched with her mother from the window of the spinning mule room as they had arrived, a few at first and then a few dozen, and suddenly the space in front of the factory was thronged with people, a larger crowd than she had ever seen before. They were led by two men: one was carrying a straw figure, the other waving a red flag. The crowd was murmuring, in some cases talking or even laughing, but not shouting. Everyone stilled and fell silent, though, when the man holding the straw effigy handed it to another and stepped forward, looking up at the mill.

  The Luddite leader may have been looking directly up at Hodgkins, the mill owner, or simply raising his gaze to where he thought a mill owner would stand.

  ‘As a holder of those despicable power looms,’ he yelled. ‘General Ludd informed you he would detach a lieutenant and men to destroy them if you did not put them aside. This you have failed to do. Neither you nor Westminster has listened to our petitions. We have asked the House of Commons to pass an Act to put down all machinery hurtful to commonality, and repeal that to hang frame breakers. We have received no satisfaction. We petition no more. Now, we fight, and we start here.’

  As soon as he had finished speaking, the crowd surged forward, shoving against the factory’s main door. Judging by the tinkling sound below her, others were hurling rocks at the windows. She saw a boy, perhaps her age, being lifted through a window; the men lifting him were laughing, but he looked terrified.

  Then she had heard the crack-crack-crack of what sounded like weapons firing. But she knew what it was – her father had told their family the previous night that the march of the Luddites had been expected, and some of the mill workers had been given guns loaded with blank rounds.

  Perhaps the overseers were hoping that the sound itself would disperse the crowd, but it only slowed them for a few seconds. A few people slipped away, while others looked for the fallen around them and did not find any. Almost all at once, it seemed to occur to them that the weapons were just making noise.

  She knew these people meant her no harm, that they only wanted the machines with which she worked. Still, their angry swarm frightened her.

  She heard another bang, and another. The sounds did not worry the crowd, for now they believed they were in no danger. But Sarah, from her window, had seen red bloom over a man’s chest as he fell back, spraying the people around him with blood. Then another bang, and a woman to the right of the crowd twirled and fell as though someone had grabbed her by the shoulder, twisted and pushed her. A third, and one of the men near the front – perhaps the one who had carried Ludd’s effigy – was down.

  The crowd panicked, running into each other, elbowing, scrambling past to get to the road that led away from the mill. They were met by a line of mounted Scots Greys, in tall hats and red coats with white straps across their chests, coming from the town.

  Baxendale spoke with the same Yorkshire accent as the leader of the frame breakers. Now he was frowning at her. ‘And what did you make of them, these Luddites?’ he asked. ‘Not everyone welcomed their actions.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I suppose sometimes you need to burn a forest to the ground so it can grow again.’

  Baxendale nodded. ‘Perhaps you might explain that to him,’ he said, gesturing towards Keenan. Then he jammed his broad-brimmed hat onto his bald head, nodded vaguely and walked away.

  Keenan looked at Sarah, smiling and shaking his head, and she laughed. ‘A charming man,’ she said.

  ‘What he lacks in manners, he makes up for in conviction,’ Keenan said. ‘Shall I see you home?’

  They walked in silence until they came to the wharves that jutted into the harbour near The Rocks. Across the water were other wharves, leading to warehouses. One bore the name THISTLE in large black letters. Sarah winced. If she squinted, she could almost believe the sign said HODGKINS & SONS.

  Keenan nervously cleared his throat. ‘So, Manchester,’ he said. ‘Were you there, when the government slaughtered its own people for the crime of listening to a speech?’

  Sarah was well aware her accent betrayed her origins, and she intended to hide in the truth, or a version of it.

  ‘Most of Manchester was there that day,’ she said.

  ‘And did you lose anyone there?’

  She could not disavow her parents by pretending they still breathed or that they had been taken by hunger or an illness. But she did not know whether the eyes searching for her could see this far, or what they knew of the circumstances that had led her to London.

  ‘My – my last living relative died suddenly, sometime later,’ she said. ‘And now I work in a boarding house.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said, and spat on the ground. ‘One of Mrs Thistle’s, most probably.’

  Sarah shrugged. ‘Why do people hate her?’

  ‘Not her. What she represents. The hoarding of resources. Those carriage wheels of hers that roll through the streets past people in rags. The bounty that goes into her warehouse, and only comes out again at a price. I’ve seen what she brings in – I’ve unloaded her ships.’

  ‘But she’s not the enemy. What of Lord Liverpool?’

  ‘Do not call him that. Robert Jenkinson’s his name. Even if he is prime minister, he should use the name he was born with, not an undeserved title bestowed by a fat, raddled Prince Regent.’

  ‘King, now,’ said Sarah.

  ‘Hm, I’d forgotten. But it does not matter whose buttocks are on that throne, they will never move themselves onto a ship and come here. Jenkinson may be most at fault. But Mrs Thistle drinks from the same corrupt well. And she has an advantage over all of them – she’s here.’

  CHAPTER 26

  Sarah did not let Keenan walk her all the way home, saying goodbye to him at Market Place.

  When she reached the English Rose she stopped to let her breathing slow. She smoothed down her dress, tried to dust off the worst of the road’s grime, fixed the hair coming loose from the black ribbon tied at the nape of her neck. She inhaled, darted around the side of the house and opened the kitchen door, bracing herself for a telling off.

  Mrs Vale was not alone. And the way she was staring at Mrs Thistle told Sarah that she was not the cause of the landlady’s distress.

  Mrs Thistle was sitting calmly at the head of the table, a cup of tea in her hand. Perhaps it had been placed there by Nell, who was standing by the kitchen’s other door with Amelia as though guarding the place against an invasion.

  Mrs Thistle took a sip, slurping in a way that would have earned Sarah, or anyone else, a dressing-down from Mrs Vale, who was standing near the hearth, lifting the corner of her starched white apron to dab her eyes.

  Mrs Thistle put her teacup into the saucer, the pieces of china rattling against each other. ‘You see, this is what I mean,’ she said. ‘Honestly, the difference is so marked, I’m surprised you don’t get complaints from the guests.’ She got up, walked over to a cupboard and took out a head of cauliflower. After inspecting it closely, she threw i
t back in the cupboard without closing the door. ‘But of course we have been getting complaints, my dear, haven’t we? Just look at what happened after church.’ She noticed Sarah standing in the doorway. ‘Ah, Miss Marin! Marvellous, I am so glad that you are here. Won’t you come in?’

  Sarah stepped into the room, looking at Nell and hoping her friend would, by a raised eyebrow or a glare or a shake of the head, give her a signal as to what was going on.

  ‘Sit down there, dear, next to me,’ Mrs Thistle said, settling back into her own chair at the head of the table. Sarah pulled back a chair and lowered herself into it, watching Mrs Vale, who was glaring at her.

  ‘We were just talking about a conversation outside church with a fellow visiting from Van Diemen’s Land. Nice chap, I had a sherry with him last week. He marched up to us after the service this morning and told me he’d been served the worst rations he’d had since the army. Did you know, Sarah, that soldiers eat little better than convicts? Not really the reputation we want, is it?’ She looked at Mrs Vale. ‘I so appreciated your efficiency. Whenever I checked the accounts – well, I thought you were making food go a long way. We know why that is now, of course.’

  Mrs Vale stared at her employer through reddened eyes. ‘I have done nothing wrong.’

  ‘I rather think you have. You’ve been seen selling my tea and provisions, exchanging them for far inferior counterparts.’

  ‘It is not possible that I was seen,’ said Mrs Vale, ‘as I did no such thing.’

  ‘Sarah,’ said Mrs Thistle, ‘Mrs Vale seems to believe you are a liar.’

  ‘She has been plucked from the sea with no family, no money,’ Mrs Vale said. ‘She could be anyone, and you would believe her when she accuses me of such things?’

  ‘When she told me, I was cautious. But then I sent my driver here. Been with me for years, he has. Was engaged by my late husband.’ Mrs Thistle settled back in her chair, picked up the cup and saucer, took another sip and stared at Mrs Vale over the rim; the landlady was still gaping. ‘Of course, you could be gaoled for this. Sent to the Female Factory out at Parramatta. I don’t think you would like picking oakum. The girls who have to extract those fibres from the old rope, the pads of their fingers get bloodied and raw.’

  Mrs Vale looked at the door, and Sarah tensed in case the woman tried to run at it, or at her.

  ‘Fortunately for you, I have no intention of involving the police,’ Mrs Thistle continued. ‘Bad for my reputation, you see, and as the superintendent is a friend, I would rather our next conversation be a pleasant one. I will, however, accept your resignation.’

  ‘This place – it will collapse, without me to run it,’ said Mrs Vale.

  ‘I rather think it won’t. Miss Marin will do a fine job.’ She smiled at Sarah. ‘If you’re willing to accept the post, of course, dear.’

  ‘You can’t be thinking of . . .’ said Mrs Vale.

  ‘Doing more than thinking of it. Really, my dear woman, I thought you had better taste than to consort with someone like Houlihan. How many times has he lost his ticket of leave now? Not even the thieves trust him. We’re not short of our choice of criminals here, and you picked the most dishonest of the lot.’

  ‘I have not—’

  Mrs Thistle held up her hand. ‘Please let us not waste each other’s time.’ To Sarah, she said, ‘We’ll get you and Mrs Flaherty some help. A girl from the Female Factory – I know a few. Of course you’ll be sending the accounts for provisions straight to me, and you may expect certain friends of mine – friends whom you have not met – to call on this establishment as guests and then report to me on the standards you maintain. I do assure you, if there is an unhappy guest or a poorly cooked meal, I will know of it.’ She glanced at Mrs Vale. ‘Are you still here, dear woman? I should think you had best clear your personal belongings out of your bedroom. After all, by tonight it will have another occupant.’

  *

  The bedroom was at the back of the main house. Its small window had heavy velvet drapes that trapped both heat and dust, and it still smelled a little of Mrs Vale’s lavender water. It did, however, boast the best bed Sarah had ever slept in, with a decorative iron head, a downy mattress and a quilt that more often than not was kicked off by morning.

  Nell and Sarah shared this bed, while Amelia slept in a straw basket beside her mother, unsettled at first by the change in circumstances. Nell still regularly snuck out at night. And the young blonde woman from the Female Factory, Lizzie, slept alone in their old room.

  The guests had not taken much notice of the change in management. Those who arrived after Sarah had replaced Mrs Vale seemed to have no expectations as to who their host would be, and they were more than happy to have the dark-haired young woman as their landlady – especially when they found out that she had survived the wreck, as they invariably did. Someone would hear her name and remember reading of it, or they would be enlightened by a longer-standing guest who had seen her walk around with Mrs Thistle.

  Their employer visited every week or so, and Sarah trailed her along with a tray of drinks as she greeted all the guests. She would pat Sarah’s shoulder and say, ‘Do you know how remarkable this young woman is? Not just for running an excellent guesthouse, of course, even though she is. But she also survived what no others did.’

  Mrs Thistle delighted in focusing the general fascination with the Serpent and its rumoured treasure on the young woman standing beside her.

  ‘I wonder, madam,’ Sarah said once, ‘whether you would consider not acquainting the guests with my past?’

  ‘Nonsense, it’s good for business,’ Mrs Thistle replied. ‘And my business includes you now, so I would go along with it if I were you.’

  After a small flush of pride, Sarah felt ashamed. Had she betrayed her brother’s memory by aligning with the woman? But aligned she was.

  More than once she opened her mouth to ask Mrs Thistle if she would take on Henry as an assigned convict servant. That, though, would almost certainly lead to her employer learning of her involvement in the rebellion, as the reason for Henry’s transportation was public knowledge. Nell and Amelia, Sarah told herself, would only be sure of a place under this roof if she was managing it. She tried to banish the images of a brutalised Henry that sometimes jeered at her when she closed her eyes.

  CHAPTER 27

  Someone had forgotten to inform the disreputable Houlihan of the change in circumstances. He arrived on a market day, as usual. Mrs Vale was long gone, and Sarah had taken Lizzie to show her what to buy, and from whom to buy it. Nell answered the door, Amelia at her hip, when Houlihan grew impatient and knocked.

  She was laughing when she told Sarah about it later. ‘Fellow nearly died when he saw me. He asked for Mrs Vale, and I told him she’d been sacked on account of dealing with undesirables. I asked him if he’d heard anything about that, and he spat on the ground, hurried back to his cart, flicked his reins and went off so fast I thought he’d lose a wheel.’

  Sarah couldn’t help laughing with her. ‘It was the brave Amelia who scared him off,’ she said, reaching over to stroke the baby’s head. ‘But, Nell, try to be as careful as you can. Someone like Houlihan, it’s best if he has no reason to remember you.’

  *

  Nell insisted on coming with Sarah to one of the meetings in The Rocks, although Sarah warned her it was no place for a baby – she had been to several, now, and they often devolved into shouts as the participants battled each other to see who had the loudest voice or the most florid rhetoric.

  ‘This entire colony is no place for a baby, at least for a poor one,’ Nell said. ‘They’ll just be talking. And I’d like to listen.’

  The two of them were in their plain brown dresses, their hair scraped back under caps, and no one seemed to notice them as they walked to the cottage marked with a serpent.

  Mrs Addison bustled up as they entered. ‘More of you each time,’ she said. ‘You think I have a larger house put by?’

  Nell jigg
led Amelia. ‘I’ll keep her quiet, I promise.’

  Mrs Addison snorted. ‘She’ll be one of the better-behaved ones here.’ She banged her pot on the doorframe again to call everyone inside.

  Keenan took his place at the front of the room. ‘Many of you will have heard of the latest death,’ he said. ‘Another girl bludgeoned late at night, this time behind the Gloucester Street shebeen. Apparently no one noticed anything suspicious. And why was she there?’

  ‘I think we all know the answer to that one, son,’ a man towards the back called.

  There were some snickers at this, mostly from those sitting in his area. Sarah reached out to squeeze Nell’s hand. She was aching to push Keenan aside so that she could speak. How many of the others here had heard Orator Hartford, or Delia for that matter? If she could get them to listen to her words and not the female voice in which they were delivered, she knew she could do a better job than Keenan.

  He gave a heavy sigh, surely for effect. If they ever had a conversation beyond their exchange at the docks, Sarah would have to tell him that overemphasis never helped.

  ‘She was there, Stephen, because she had no other means of feeding herself,’ Keenan said. ‘Don’t be a fool – we don’t welcome them here.’

  Mrs Addison nodded. ‘The lad’s right. But if lack of idiocy was the price of entry, this room would be empty.’

  Keenan ignored her, addressing the room again. ‘She was there because this government, all governments, trade on patronage. You receive something only if you can give something in return. What can women like the one who was killed give, that the men who have gulped down vast acreages here can’t buy? And what of help from their own sex? Why is Mrs Thistle not taking these women in, or giving them succour?’

  Sarah inhaled sharply, her fists clenching. If it were not for Nell, she would have agreed with Keenan, to a point – although she noticed he wasn’t asking rich men to provide similar help. She increasingly suspected Mrs Thistle was not the problem; she was, after all, sheltering at least two women. If radicals like Keenan were willing to rail against Molly Thistle before the governor – if one woman was a more convenient target than the male administration creating the conditions that saw young women crushed in alleyways – they had already lost.